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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
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"Lord Seaworth is a man of humble birth, but he reminded me of my duty, when all I could think of was my rights. I had the cart before the horse, Davos said. I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne."
"These pardoned lords would do well to reflect on that. Good men and true will fight for Joffrey, wrongly believing him the true king. A northman might even say the same of Robb Stark. But these lords who flocked to my brother's banners knew him for a usurper. They turned their backs on their rightful king for no better reason than dreams of power and glory, and I have marked them for what they are. Pardoned them, yes. Forgiven. But not forgotten."
"Every man shall reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget that."
Stannis Baratheon
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Westeros, Castle Black
301 AC
Aerion Self-proclaimed Targaryen
They gathered in his chamber. Besides him were Bran and Hodor, Val, Ser Alliser, Edd, Iron Emmett, Song, Leaf, the Reed twins, and several of Selyse's knights and Free Folk leaders.
"Ser Alliser, you will set out first thing in the morning with the four thousand men we have for Last Hearth. Sigurd will join you there with his men and as many as he can still take from Karhold. I have already sent a raven to him," he ordered, pointing at the map. The First Ranger nodded. Aerion looked at his friend.
"Edd, you will take a dozen brothers and a dozen of Tormund's men. Ser Justin Massey is heading here with the Iron Bank representative, Tyho Nestoris. Bran will lead you to them. Then you will bring them to me."
Then his gaze fell on Val. "You and Emmett are holding everything together here, and when Tormund arrives, you will lead the others south to Winterfell. All castles and settlements are to be cleared."
Val looked at him worriedly. "So you intend to go alone?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. The others also looked at him uncertainly. They had seen what he was capable of, but still, facing an entire army was suicide. "Why not wait and go with all your strength? Stannis's army is gone anyway?"
"Stannis lives, though his army is in a terrible state. Whittled down, starved," Bran interjected weakly, drawing everyone's attention.
Val immediately looked at Aerion. "Did you know about this?"
He nodded. "Aye, Bran saw them in a vision. That's why I'm going alone, though that's not true either, for I'm taking Torrent, Ghost, and Godwyn with me. Together we'll be faster than the wind itself and reach Stannis in a few days."
He looked at Ser Axell Florent. "Ser, you can tell Selyse that her husband lives. But that doesn't change the fact that you swore an oath to me. Stannis will do the same, by my blood, or by my strength. Do we understand?" he asked, staring at the man with such intensity that he practically began to sweat with nerves.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the knight replied without hesitation, though the news of Stannis's survival clearly shook him.
"Good," Aerion accepted, rising. "I hope we meet in a warmer place." He then left the chamber, Val and Ser Alliser hot on his heels. But they were both silent, as were the others, who soon followed.
Aerion stepped into the courtyard and whistled into the ring, summoning Torrent. Ghost, lying nearby, rose to his feet with a lightness that belied his more than ton of mass, and Godwyn flew down and landed on his own shoulder.
"Boys, we have a long journey ahead of us, and then war, most likely," he called out, then mounted Torrent and, without looking back, left Castle Black, seeing him for what might be the last time in his life.
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Westeros, North
301 AC
Stannis Baratheon
Just when everything seemed to be going his way at first and he began focusing on how to lure the Bolton out of Winterfell, the blizzards came and everything went to hell. Melisandre would have said it was the Great Enemy's doing, and perhaps she was right, especially since the cold and snow were the domain of the Others.
With each passing day, he began to feel more desperate. His men were dying from the cold or hunger, even the hardened warriors of the North; they were attacked by hungry wolves, even a bear once or twice. Some of his soldiers began to desert, though he doubted they would get far.
He stopped blaming them, though, not when he himself was beginning to doubt they'd survive another sleepless night. Cursed Roose Bolton hadn't even had to lift a finger to destroy them. Frost and snow had done it for him. Worse still, they were running very low on supplies, and he'd been forced to tighten their rationing, which further damaged morale.
Himself was beginning to doubt whether anything other than certain death awaited them in the snow, and the only thing that drove him forward was his goal: uniting Westeros and preparing it for the greatest war of all. He felt that leaving Melisandre at Castle Black had been a mistake, for she might find a way to weather this cursed blizzard.
The sudden improvement in the weather, the arrival of Tyho Nestoris, and the agreement with the Iron Bank gave him some hope, but the truth was that he didn't believe he'd live to see Ser Massey arrive with sellswords from Essos. The round trip alone and finding enough companies would likely take moons.
Besides, there was no turning back for them; they would either take Winterfell or fall in battle. For his forces, there was no turning back; they wouldn't survive. And he, as befits, would fall with them.
It was only fair that, while demanding their lives for the cause, he himself was prepared to do the same. How different would he be from the other contenders?
A commotion in the camp caught his attention, followed by the sound of a horn. Roose Bolton had finally located them; Arnolf Karstark's betrayal had just revealed its consequences.
He didn't even have to wait for confirmation from Ser Richard, who had just rushed to the top of the tower. His final moment was approaching. He felt it, but he intended to die as befitted a king, as befitted a knight.
"Your Majesty, one of the sent scouts has returned. The Boltons are about 5-6 miles away. Mors Umber and his men are retreating ahead of them," the knight said, dropping to one knee before struggling to his feet.
If all his men were so weakened, they might as well have fallen before the forces could meet. Stannis frowned at the thought. Even with three hundred of Umber's men, his depleted force still numbered only about 1,300. Starved, exhausted, and with practically nonexistent morale.
The only consolation was that their position between the lakes guaranteed them flank protection against cavalry. This didn't change the fact that they were significantly outnumbered, regardless of whether Bolton had committed all his forces or not.
Arnolf's 500 men, kept under guard, could either significantly strengthen his forces or prove to be a crushing blow to his forces. He couldn't leave enough men to guard them.
He had no choice but to take the risk. He looked at Ser Richard and ordered, "Release Arnolf's men and surrender their weapons. Tell them they can fight alongside us or alongside the Boltons and Freys, traitors, murderers, and violators of the sacred law of hospitality."
The knight frowned at his words but didn't question his orders. Good. There was no time for doubt.
"Then go to Greyjoy and tell him he has a chance to die like a man if he fights. Let him if he agrees. It's a shame to waste a sword on him."
Unnecessarily donning armor, as he wore it almost constantly, ready to fight, he simply grabbed his helmet, strapped on his mace, and grasped the Lightbringer in its scabbard.
Leaving the tower, he moved without hesitation through the camp, which was unusually lively for the first time in a long time. He wasn't surprised, however; the impending battle had at least given his men hope for a dignified death.
Visibility outside was certainly better than during the blizzard, but still, with the exception of the tower itself, everything else blended into a single layer of white and snow, to the point that he couldn't tell where the land ended and the two lakes surrounding them to the north and south began.
"Ser Godry, Ser Clayton!" he called out to two of his knights, urging their soldiers to readiness. Seeing him, both immediately headed towards him.
"My king! Your Majesty!" they cried, and he merely raised a hand, silencing them instantly.
Stannis glared at them hard. "You know the plan. The lake and the lack of visibility are our only hope. Line up your men behind the tower and order them to wait."
He only hoped Hosteen Frey would prove to be as foolish as he had heard. He would spread his forces across the snow-covered, thin ice that bound the lakes. He only regretted that the timing wasn't better, as they would have the best chance of a successful trap after dark.
Slowly, his forces began to gather around the watchtower, including the Karstarks' men. Ser Richard returned with good news, and Stannis gave him new orders, crucial if they were to survive.
"Ser Richard. Light the weirwood tree in the middle of the lake, as we agreed. I will order the fire on the tower extinguished," he ordered, and the knight merely bowed.
Satisfied, he returned to the watchtower, taking three men with him and extinguishing the fire burning atop it. He then remained there, hoping that from there he would better spot the approaching army and better navigate the battle.
Soon, he indeed saw some three hundred of Mors's green boys approaching. Behind them, perhaps a mile and a half, followed the larger Frey army. He couldn't tell how many there were, for they merged into a dark blur surrounded by snow.
He was surprised that even the Frey riders didn't attempt to attack the retreating Mors and his men. However, this confirmed his certainty that he was dealing with a fool.
Neither Bolton nor any other sensible commander would likely fall for this trap, but Frey would. He would want to crush him as soon as possible.
He watched silently as Mors Umber's forces entered between the two lakes, and the few men he had sent began to direct them towards his forces.
Suddenly, he froze as the Bolton forces following them, though mostly composed of Frey and Manderly forces, halted in their tracks. About a mile and a half from the eastern shores of the lakes.
Stannis frowned. Something was wrong. They should be pressing forward.
"Why aren't they attacking?" Robett Glover asked, standing beside him, as surprised as he was. "Surely Frey commands their forces?"
"I don't know," he replied, watching as the enemy forces on the plain began to retreat until they stopped about two miles from their position. While the front ranks stood firm, the remaining troops began to make camp.
A quarter of an hour passed. Then an hour passed, and the enemy camp began to take shape. Stannis watched it all with a straight face, knowing he couldn't keep his men ready in this freezing cold, or they would collapse from exhaustion.
On the other hand, he didn't know if the Bolton forces would suddenly attack.
"There must be about three thousands of them," came the gruff voice of Mors Umber, who had been brought to him upon arrival. The old soldier, however, had nothing of value to report.
"That's twice as many soldiers as ours, and they're well-rested and well-fed, to boot," he replied, observing it all with a slowly creeping sense of resignation. Their only hope lay in his plan, which exploited Hosteen Frey's stupidity and hotheadedness.
Someone else had to take command of the enemy forces, someone smarter, or at least more cautious.
"Let the soldiers rekindle their fires, but let them be ready," he ordered Ser Richard, adding, "They'll freeze before the battle even begins."
Another hour passed, and he stubbornly watched the enemy forces feasting in their camp, though some 500 of them still stood ready, shifting occasionally. As the smell of cooking food began to drift towards them on the wind, Stannis felt his own stomach growl.
His men must have felt it even more acutely, especially those with the weakest minds. The sounds of laughter and singing were added to this. It was a deliberate tactic. He was clearly dealing with a cunning opponent, waging a psychological war against them.
Worst of all, it was barely noon and the situation was hopeless. It wouldn't be long before his starving men rushed desperately towards the enemy camp, hoping they'd get a warm meal if they surrendered.
With difficulty tearing off a piece of meat that had hardened to a stone, he watched as a rider broke away from the enemy camp. It turned out he had a figure slung over his saddle. About half a mile away, he stopped, dismounted, and cut the prisoner's bonds. Then, remounting, he rode away.
The freed prisoner trudged toward them. Stannis glanced at Farring, who stood nearby. "Ser Godry. Bring me this man as quickly as possible! They wouldn't let him go without a purpose."
"As you command, Your Majesty," the knight replied, hurrying down the tower. And they waited. The waiting was the worst, and even he was beginning to feel the mental exhaustion.
And when Ser Godry finally appeared with the released prisoner, Stannis recognized the man as one of the local peasants they had sent out earlier to scout, for they knew the area and disliked the Boltons.
The man was covered in bruises and wounds. Clearly tortured, but so that he would still be able to live and deliver what he had been ordered to deliver. As soon as Ser Godry unscrupulously forced him into the tower, the man fell to the ground. The knight tried to force the man to his feet, but Stannis raised his hand.
"Enough. He's barely alive," he said, then knelt beside him and, staring into his barely conscious eyes, asked, "Why did they release you? What do you have to deliver?"
The Northerman spat blood, then, as if gathering his strength, rasped, "Bast... bastard. Bolton, the bastard, told me to... tell you to tell him he has enough supplies to stay here for another moon. And that he will... and that he will wait. He's in no hurry."
Stannis felt his blood freeze in his veins. Ramsey Snow, the bastard Theon had mentioned. The bastard had underestimated him. He was cunning, cunning, and had the upper hand.
He could indeed starve them to death or drive them mad beforehand. His men would desert or attack just to get food.
That explained everything. Roose Bolton had sent his son to oversee the attack, seeing Frey's incompetence.
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He looked at the faces of his few knights and Mors Umber surrounding him. He saw realization and desperation on all of them.
"My King, we must burn Balon Greyjoy's spawn. Only royal blood offered to R'hllor can save us," Clayton pleaded, approaching him.
Stannis clenched his jaw. As if R'hllor cared, they wouldn't be in this situation. For hadn't he done everything he'd ordered? Had he not fulfilled his will, as conveyed by Melisandre? Hadn't he sacrificed everything?
"No!" he replied, glaring at the knight. "If R'hllor gives a damn, he'll help us without it, and if not, to hell with him. It will only show that we were mere pawns, and ultimately useless at that."
The knight pulled away and widened his eyes as if he'd slapped him, but Stannis didn't care. Doubts began to consume him. What if all of this, the visions in the flames, the Shadows, were simply some magic of the Red Priestess and not divine action?
What if he had simply been enchanted by the pretty face and the nice pair of tits and the visions of grandeur Melisandre had bestowed upon him? For where was R'hllor when his followers needed him most? Moreover, was there any difference between him and the Great Other at all?
For didn't millions of the inhabitants of the Free Cities, especially Volantis, worship the god of fire and shadow, still being born, living, and dying in slavery? Didn't that mean R'hllor was as much a demon as the Great Other?
And the Seven? The Old Gods? Each of them indifferent to the suffering of their followers for centuries, millennia.
Stannis was tired of waiting, hoping for a miracle or the enemy's stupidity. "Prepare the men. In an hour, we will give battle, and either we die or R'hllor will perform a miracle. It doesn't matter... If I must die, it must be with my sword in hand," he ordered.
He began leading his soldiers out from between the lakes onto the wide, snow-covered plain opposite the Bolton camp, which was also boiling.
The campfires were extinguished, the tents were taken down, and the formations began to be reorganized. The Bolton infantry in the center, the Freys on the left, and the Mandarlys on the right. Compared to the enemy's numbers, his own fifteen hundred seemed pitifully small.
Glover, Mors Umber, and his knights tried to arrange them into some sort of formation, but it was of little use. They looked like a wild motley crew, more like the Wildings. Of his own men, whom he had brought from the south, only a few dozen remained.
The armies halted about a mile apart. For a moment, nothing happened, until a few horsemen broke away from the Bolton army and advanced towards them, halting halfway.
Stannis looked at his men. "Sers Robert, Godry, Clayton, and Lords Mors and Glover are with me. Take a few more men," he ordered, then set off on foot toward the waiting riders.
As they finally approached, he recognized one figure easily, due to his massive frame, which even a specially bred horse had difficulty supporting, though Lord White Harbor had already lost a considerable amount of weight. Wyman Mandarly. Traitor. Opportunist.
The next figure he recognized, due to his similar features to his father, was Holsteen Frey. Three soldiers were insignificant. But it was the middle rider who caught his eye, his gaze radiating arrogance and pride.
He had long dark hair, pink, pimpled skin, and small, close-set eyes, the color of pale ice, clearly inherited from his father. Ramsay Snow didn't have a generally pleasant appearance, and from what he'd heard, even that paled in comparison to his cruel nature.
The bastard's wide, fleshy mouth opened in a smile, revealing a row of uneven, yellowed teeth.
"Ah, Your Majesty. I am honored you have graced us with your presence," Ramsay said, his voice even less pleasant than his face. "I expected to have to wait a few days to rescue you from this den... What, have you run out of corpses to eat?"
Stannis's hand involuntarily tightened on his sword hilt, but even exhausted, he wasn't about to be unnerved. Not by someone like him.
"I don't know what Roose Bolton was thinking, sending his forces under the command of a bastard. And from what I can see, the worst kind of bastard. "Has he run out of competent commanders?" he replied coldly, without a trace of irony.
He wasn't going to play any games, but it wouldn't hurt to anger Snow. It is easier to make mistakes when you are angry, especially when you are a commander.
Ramsay smiled even wider, but from the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes, Stannis knew he'd hit the nail on the head. It was clear the bastard was insecure about his position.
"You're quite the mouthpiece, having such a pitiful army. I'd previously considered that if you'd fallen to your knees and begged for mercy, I might have spared your life. We could use a jester at Winterfell," Snow ground out through his teeth, then, regaining his composure, added. "However, I intend to savor your death."
Stannis said nothing, his attention drawn to a bird circling low above them. He frowned as a pitch-black raven landed on lone tree nearby.
Though Stannis had to admit, he hadn't for a moment mistaken it for an eagle, for the bird resembled it more in size. Another distinguishing feature was its eyes, gleaming like two golden lanterns instead of the usual black beads.
But nothing could have surprised him more than what happened next. The raven spoke. And no, not like so many ravens he'd heard, repeating a few words. No. This raven spoke with a human voice, though a slightly distorted one.
"Ramsay Snow, the ugliest mug in the North. I'm almost there. Wait."
Everyone stared at the strange raven as if they hadn't realized what he'd just said or that he'd said anything at all.
Even he had to admit that Ramsay's expression was comical. He'd just been insulted by the bird.
"Did that little shit just say what I think it said?" Ramsay asked in a dangerous tone, reaching for the bow strapped to his back.
Stannis and his men immediately reached for the hilts of their weapons. But before anyone could draw, a cloud of white clouded their vision. A gust of wind blew snow into the air, momentarily blinding them. And when it subsided, they were no longer alone on the plain.
A strange mount appeared between them, resembling a horned horse, but it was the figure sitting on its back that caught their attention.
The warrior was clad head to toe in full plate armor and a green tabard with unfamiliar symbols and crests.
He dismounted with a lightness that belied his heavy armor. He was tall, not like a mountain, but still taller than Stannis. Suddenly, his helmet vanished, dissolving into flecks of gold, revealing a familiar yet alien face, remarkably handsome for a man, and short silver-gold hair. It was a kind of sorcery.
His breath caught in his throat for a moment. But only when the stranger looked his way did Stannis feel a chill run through him. His right eye was amethyst with a catlike vertical pupil and screamed Targaryen a mile away, but his left eye, filled with something like molten gold or pure light with some symbol gleaming within, gave him an inhuman appearance.
Stannis had lived long enough and fought in too many battles to fail to recognize danger when it confronted him, though it usually didn't come in the form of a single man.
"Lord Stannis, my lords, sers." The man spoke in a low voice, nodding slightly to him and the men with him. Stannis recognized that voice from somewhere, though now it seemed lower and deeper than before.
The stranger then looked at Bolton. "I dreamed of crushing your skull like an overripe fruit, of carrying out the Blood Eagle on your father for what you did at the Red Wedding and the North itself."
Stannis immediately noticed that the bastard's earlier bravado had vanished, as if he too sensed that they were not dealing with a normal human.
"And who are you? I don't recall doing anything to any Valyrian warlock?" Ramsay replied, though his voice lacked confidence and swagger.
The man looked at Snow coldly, though Stannis had a feeling that look could freeze your blood.
"I am Aerion Targaryen, First of His Name, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark," he said, then added, "And I have come to settle a blood debt."